"Oh, my favorite...that's easy. Rabbit Island. I own it, but I haven't gone back in years. But it's cose to my home, and technically it's still uninhabited." He doesn't mind it being lonely, but it was and is so close to his first home that it's hard to stay there. But he can't quite give it up.

"I chose them...most of them because I could be alone, and in control of my own life, for however long. However I wanted to live it," he murmurs, purposefully not looking at the fresco again, but turning a fraction to look at Armand. His friend looks steady as ever, face gentle and smooth save for the tiniest furrow between his brows. If Ganymede were paying attention, he'd remark it, but the sight of his own face so properly rendered from so long ago still has him rattled.

There's no artistic license there, no tweaking his face to make his eyes lighter, his lips thinner, his nose less. And what that means--that someone knew him, that someone knew what he looked like when he was mortal, and marked it down--is terrifying. The implications are even more so. So when Armand suggests they leave the art and go get a drink, he smiles.

"It tastes awful for you, I know," he says lightly, a small smile touching his face as he laces their fingers together and squeezes at the tug. "This place closes at nine, every day but Sunday. Five on Sundays. Why?" he asks.